You're Dating WHO?
by Mr Sinister
Summary: Bobby Drake's relationship with Emma Frost is good but telling the rest of the team is going to be tougher than he thinks...


**_You're Dating WHO?_**

   Emma Frost stirs against me, the warm skin of her unclothed breasts pressing gently against my chest, and kisses me good morning. "Morning, stud," she says sleepily, moving some hair out of her eyes (although as usual, it's almost impossible to find anything _really wrong with her haircut. I'd swear she has a stylist sleep by her bed so that he can fix anything that gets majorly out of place during the night…). "Did you sleep well?" I blink once or twice to gets the sleep out of my own eyes, and then rub my hand down over my face, slapping my cheeks to wake myself up. It doesn't work, so I fall backwards onto the mattress again, instantly feeling the all the sleepiness in my body run right to my head. That's not the answer either, so I sit up once more, and this time I feel slightly more capable of dealing with wakefulness than I did before._

   "Like a rock," I tell Emma once I've managed to drag myself into consciousness, swinging my legs down over the side of the bed and finding the soft fabric of the carpet, instead of the slightly less forgiving surface of my room back at the Xavier Institute. "You got any coffee around here? I need at least one cup of java in the morning, or I'm cranky all day."

   Emma laughs. "Join the rest of the human race, Bobby," she says, throwing her side of the sheets off her legs before standing up and stretching slowly, like a cat. Her naked body looks just as beautiful in the half-light of the bedroom as it did last night, and it's hard for me not to be totally distracted by it as she walks slowly towards the curtains in the corner of the room, and opens them wide, letting bright streams of sunlight flood into the room (and almost blinding me for a moment, to boot). Emma notices me gawping stupidly, like a fifteen-year-old kid who's just seen his first copy of _Playboy, and she smiles. "Oh, stop it, Bobby," she scolds, nevertheless jiggling her hips seductively so that she can prolong the moment. "It's nothing you haven't seen before, after all."_

   "So?" I move across her half of the bed and grab her playfully around the waist, making her sit down on my lap. She squeals in mock-annoyance and bats at me with her hands, but still doesn't put up much resistance when I turn her head gently towards me and brush her lips with mine. "Doesn't mean I can't still look, does it?"

   "I suppose not," Emma concedes, shifting in place so that she faces me more comfortably, her long, shapely legs wrapping themselves around my waist before she kisses me again. "I _am rather irresistible, aren't I?"  Stretching again for a moment, she pushes me forcefully down onto my back, nipping lightly at my bare chest and neck with her teeth and lips. "Now, then… how about some __breakfast, Mr Drake?"_

   The Blackbird flies through the New England skies at twice the speed of sound, gentle puffs of cloud passing across the cockpit windows every so often and sweeping back over the plane's sleek hull. Scott's sitting at the controls, watching the dials and buttons while also keeping an eye on the sky ahead. As he's checking our fuel gauge again, he says "So, Bobby, are you going to tell me why you asked me to come get you a day later than you originally wanted, or am I going to have to ask Jean to squeeze it out of your head while you're asleep?"

   I put my hands behind my head and stretch as far as I can while I'm in the other seat's harness, after I give Scott my best version of a horrified and shocked look. "Now, Scott, you know very well that if I told you, I'd be betraying Emma's confidence. And you _know I'm too good a guy to do that."_

   Scott laughs, and inclines his head respectfully towards me for a second or two. "I'm sure Emma would be proud of you, Bobby." He pauses for a moment, and then changes tack. "Are you going to keep seeing her?"

   "God, no," I say, before I give Scott an incredulous look. "Jeez, Scott, what a stupid question – of _course I'm going to keep seeing her. This wasn't our first date, hot-shot." I kick one leg over the other and sit back in my seat, my head falling backwards for a second or two so that I'm looking at the roof of the Blackbird. "I really didn't think she'd see that much in me, you know? Didn't think she'd stay interested in me for this long, 'cause I'm such an ordinary kinda guy without much money. But now… I know she actually really likes being around me, the way that I like being around her. It feels… nice, I guess; nicer than I expected, anyway. She's really good company, too – I mean, this morning, once we'd had breakfast? We sat talking in the garden for hours – about what's on TV, about what she's got in the house, about all kinds of stuff. We really connected, I think." _

   Scott nods thoughtfully as he banks to the south slightly, the force of the turn gluing me to my seat. "Wow. Never thought I'd see the day when Emma Frost actually let Bobby Drake into her personal space without being hypnotised first." He catches my steely glare and quickly adds "I'm just kidding, pal. Just seems odd that she'd be so keen to be with you, that's all. You seem so different, if you don't mind me saying so."

   "Yeah, well, a lot of people would probably say the same about you and Jean," I reply, winking at my friend as he flies through a few more loose threads of cloud. "I mean, here's Jean, the woman who every single mutant good guy seems to have a thing for, and she's only got eyes for you, the man who'd have to lighten up a few notches to be work-obsessed. What's up with _that?" _

   Without answering my question, Scott moves his hand so that it hovers over the ejector seat switch for my chair. "What was that you were saying, Bobby?" he says, his face deadpan.

   "That you and Jean are perfect for each other, and you should never split up, ever?" I venture, hurriedly. Scott grins and moves his hand back to the throttle control.

   "That's better," he says lightly. "Still can't see you and the White Queen as a couple, though. What did you say to her that convinced her to put up with you?"

   "She likes my sense of humour," I say, triumphantly, folding my arms across my chest and sitting a little taller in my seat. After such a triumph, I figure I deserve to strut a little – although apparently Scott has a lot of trouble accepting what I've just told him. 

   "She… likes your jokes?" he asks, uncertainly.

   "Sure, she loves my jokes – couldn't get enough of them."

   "She's the only one, then," Scott fires back quickly. "Nobody _else thinks you're funny, Bobby. In fact, we all voted you 'worst comedian of the year' last Christmas. I'd ask Jean to back me up on that one, but, well, she's not here, so you'll have to take my word for it."_

   "Ha, ha, ha," I say, clapping my hands slowly and ironically. "You're a riot, Scott – I dunno why Saturday Night Live hasn't signed you up yet. You're lucky I don't freeze your underwear right here and now." I ice up my hands, in order to show him I mean business. As I do so, the water vapour in the cabin that surrounds my fingers immediately condenses, mist forming around my knuckles almost instantly, and a thin film of chilled water forming on the inside of the plane's windshield.

   "You do that, and your smooth designer shirt gets a buttonectomy," Scott chuckles as he lifts a hand to his glasses, ready to raise them at any moment. "And I'll do it, too."

   "And risk blowing a hole in the plane? I don't think so; you value this bucket of bolts too much to spend hours welding it a new hull." I lick my finger and draw a line in the air. "Score one for the Ice-Meister… boo-yah!" Before I can do my usual little dance of triumph, Scott taps his temple and points towards the ground.

   "Who said I was going to do it up here?" he asks, enigmatically. "If I wait until we get down to the ground, you'll never know when I'll decide to strike. I think that qualifies as a win for me, don't you think?" He gestures towards the ground, and to the hangar of the Xavier Institute that has just appeared, seemingly out of nowhere. "We're coming in for a landing now, Bobby – hold onto your seat."

   "You got it, boss-man," I say, gripping the arms of my chair with both hands. Of all the different aspects of flying, I hate landing the most. I don't know why, but I always feel as if something's going to go horribly wrong just as the ground comes up to say "hi, how are you?" Crazy, I know, and totally irrational, but then again, I'm not the most rational of guys. Anybody in the mansion would be able to tell you that. 

   As usual, I don't feel any different when the Blackbird begins to descend, and only breathe out when the plane itself is back on solid ground in the hangar bay. "I'll see you upstairs, okay, Bobby?" Scott says, as he unbuckles his seat belt and walks towards the hatch that opens onto the outside world. "Don't forget – I _own that shirt. It's just a matter of when, and how." He gives me a mock salute and leaves the cockpit, so I am alone with my overnight bag and the bad vibes left over from landing. Getting up from my seat, I heave my bag onto my shoulder and walk quickly out of the plane, towards the lift that will carry me back up to ground level. As I'm walking towards the door, I see Logan coming the other way, dressed in his usual jeans, red check shirt and boots (it's all I can do, usually, to stop myself singing __The Lumberjack Song from __Monty Python. Right now, though, I don't feel like singing anything…). As he reaches me on his way to the small Cessna in the corner of the hangar, Logan walks past me for a few steps, and then stops, a slow smile spreading itself across his face. _

   "Well, well, well… looks like the Ice Cube got lucky," he says, with a triumphant leer. Better play the innocent for the moment…

   "I… I don't know what you mean, Logan," I say, weakly, to which he only grins more widely and claps me on the shoulder enthusiastically.

   "S'okay, boy, you don't need to be ashamed," he laughs, winking at me. "Most guys'd kill to have what you got, kid – and that includes me. You got it, boy, I say you flaunt it. If I'd just spent the night at Emma Frost's place, I'd sure as hell want people to know about it." He takes in what must be a pretty shocked expression on my face without missing a beat, and says "Don't act so surprised, pup – Frost's scent is all over you like a rash." He laughs. "Besides which, the fact that you just went redder'n China kinda gives you away. You _gotta learn how to lie more convincingly." Adjusting his collar slightly, he starts walking towards the Cessna again, before he calls back to me "So when are you bringing her home for dinner? Can't __wait to meet her in person…"_

   "Who said _she wanted to meet __you, old timer?" I retort loudly, feeling stupidly as if I'm getting into some sort of chest-beating contest with the guy. "She doesn't eat steak with her fingers, after all."_

   Logan laughs again as he opens the door to the cockpit of the plane. "Nice comeback, kid – I'm sure Frosty thinks you're wonderful. Good luck tellin' the rest o' the guys." He takes a few steps before he calls back "You're gonna need it…"

   I can hear him laughing as he walks away. Not in a malicious way, but laughing anyway. But then again, that's Logan for you – he's got a sense of humour almost as sharp as his claws. Gets on my nerves sometimes, but then I think that happens to lots of the guys with certain other people on the team. Even I don't score with my jokes a hundred percent of the time – hard to believe, sure, but it happens.

   Taking a deep breath and running my hands through my hair, I walk over to the lift that will take me up to ground level, so that I can stow my bag and get a shower. Brushing my finger over the button that will call the elevator, I stand back for a pace or two, dropping my bag and folding my arms across my chest.

   "Time to face the music, Bobby," I mutter, feeling the hairs on the back of my neck prickle slightly. "Be discreet, be discreet, be discreet…" Drumming my fingers against my skull, I run through some things I could say to explain where I've been, and I finally settle on something along the lines of what I actually did: I'm going to tell people that I went to the theatre. Sure, they won't believe it, but at least it'll give me a little more time to adjust to the fact that I'm sleeping with one of the world's richest and most beautiful women…

   The lift pings gently, and the doors slide open. I step forwards automatically, only to come chest-to-chest with Jean, who is dressed in uniform and is carrying a couple of paint cans behind her telekinetically while she is reading a small book of poetry. As we bump against each other, Jean gasps in surprise, and the paint tins slip from her psychic grasp – but only for a moment. Concentrating, she grabs them again within half the time it would have taken them to fall, and stops the paint from splattering on the floor. "God, Bobby," she breathes. "Don't ever do that to me again."

   "You got it, boss-lady," I say, my heart slowly pulling back from its speeded-up pace. "Something else I can't ever do, right?"

   Jean smiles despite herself. "Yes, Bobby. Something else for you never to do." She folds her book shut and gives me a hug. "Hi, stupid."

   "Good to see you too, Jean," I reply, returning Jean's gentle embrace. "Didn't feel the same without you."

   Jean raises an eyebrow. "Don't let Scott hear you saying that, kiddo. He's got enough security issues without having to worry that his wife might be getting seduced by a younger man."

   That causes my stomach to do a back flip for a second or two, against my will. "Don't think there's much chance of that, Jean."

   "Oh, I wouldn't say _that, exactly," Jean chuckles, and pecks me on the cheek. "I might enjoy being swept off my feet by a dashing young college graduate like yourself, Bobby… you'll never know unless you try." I laugh, a little more strongly._

   "Sorry, Jeannie, but Scott already threatened to ruin this shirt when he was flying me back here, just because I threatened to freeze his boxer shorts. I'd hate to see what he'd do to me if I ran away to Saigon with his wife…" 

   "I suppose you're right," Jean says, trying her best to look utterly dejected. "So what were you doing these last couple of days?"

   "I slept with Emma Frost," I blurt, before my brain has time to remember the alibi that we had thought up together. When I realise what I've just said, I can feel my heart sinking. "Wait…" I say desperately, "I didn't just say what I thought I did, did I?"

   "Sorry, Bobby, I think you did," Jean says, her expression telling me everything I need to know about how she feels. She looks shocked, stunned, maybe even a little confused. "You really slept with Emma Frost?" I nod, sheepishly.

   "Yeah. Yeah, I did," I say, flushing deep red again. "We spent the night at the theatre, and… she invited me back to her house for a drink – and, well, you can guess the rest."

   "Oh, my." Jean blinks in surprise. "How long has this been going on?"

   "Not that long – maybe a fortnight, at the most. We were just starting out, really."

   "And you slept with her this soon?" Jean seems more curious than judgemental.

   "She asked me to stay, Jean. What was I _supposed to say – 'Sorry, Emma, I don't want to sleep with you, even though I've come back to your house late at night, we're both drunk out of our minds, and I happen to find you incredibly attractive'?_

   Jean rolls her eyes. "You know what I meant, Bobby. It just seems a bit fast, that's all."

   "Yeah, I know what you meant, Jean, and I'm grateful that you're concerned for me. But I'm fine, really – Emma's really been a breath of fresh air for me. I haven't been this positive about myself in a long time. I hope she feels the same way... I'd really like for this thing to last, you know? After Opal messed me up, I thought I'd be forced to join a monastery or something. Is it so bad to want a change for the better?"

   Jean smiles, and touches my chin affectionately. "Not at all, Bobby; in fact I think it's one of the best ideas you've had this year."

   I grin, relieved. "Even better than my brilliant plan to turn the Danger Room into an ice rink?"

   "Absolutely, Bobby," Jean chuckles, "although you could do that too, if you think it would make a difference." She points towards the second Blackbird, and then telekinetically picks up her cans of paint again. "I have to do some touch-up work on the Blackbird's nose-cone, Bobby, but I'll be around later, if you want to talk some more; I'd like to hear more about what you and Emma got up to." She giggles girlishly. "I want you to give me all the gory details."

   "You'll have to settle for the edited highlights, Jean. Sorry," I tell her, wagging my finger at her as I pick up my overnight bag again. "But that's plenty good enough." I nod my head towards the elevator before I start walking towards it, and say "Right now… I need to get showered and shaved. See you later, Jean. Enjoy your painting…"

   "I'm sure I will, Bobby," Jean calls after me as the doors to the elevator hiss closed. "Take care, sweetie."

   I set my bag down on the floor of the elevator and whistle _Yankee Doodle to myself softly, as the small light above the door shows the ground level getting closer and closer. _

_   Three down, an entire mansion to go…_


End file.
